


All the Best Mistakes Start With a Junkyard

by StitchesgetBitches



Series: All the Best Mistakes Start With a Junkyard [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bleeding, Choking, First Time, Forceful Behavior, Gore, Henry Bowers - Freeform, Henrys CRAZY yall :), Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Maggots, Masochism, Necrophilia, No Lube, Patrick Hockstetter - Freeform, Patrick doesn't even get off, Rough Sex, Sadism, basically im playing it safe, canon character death, dub con, guess that always should've been a tag, i added a second chapter, just pain, not that it's like.... a kink.... or real..... but the sentiment might still stand?, poor guy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-01-10 14:26:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12301005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StitchesgetBitches/pseuds/StitchesgetBitches
Summary: He hated him. This sick little pansy fuck- he hated him. Everything about Patrick just rubbed him the wrong way. Except his fucking hands.UPDATE as of 9/3/18:I know I wrote this to be a part of a series, BUT THAT'S JUST NOT HAPPENING, as the time frame can indicate. But i felt a lil shitty leavin y'all high and dry, so I added in a second part to sort of act as a conclusion! Based a year later, just like when it's posted, so don't read it thinking it's, like, the next day or anything. Don't really get your hopes up about it actually being a conclusion, either, it's basically just more porn and stuff. I hope those who liked it enough to bookmark appreciate the addition, special thanks to you guys for the extra dose of appreciation! And to everyone who left kudos, a special thanks to you, too!





	1. Chapter 1

 He hated him. This sick little pansy fuck- he hated him. Everything about Patrick just rubbed him the wrong way. Except his fucking  _ hands _ . After that first day, an apology was enough. But then he fucking did it again and this time kept his mouth shut, and Henry didn’t stop him. And Patrick, in turn, didn’t stop  _ him _ when one day he suddenly changed his mind, grabbed him by the hair and yanked him down, a silent demand that did not allow room for rejection. But Patrick wouldn’t, and didn’t, reject him. He grinned, instead, which did nothing but make Henry  _ angry.  _ The bitterness stuck with him even as Patrick put the head of his cock in his mouth, and without any patience he used the hand still holding onto Patrick’s hair with a vice grip, pulling too tightly on each strand locked in his hand, to yank Patrick down on his length farther than he seemed willing to go. Predictably, he choked, but made no move to come back up. Whether it was because the grip on his hair made no signs of allowing such an action or Patrick was just  _ that good _ at playing along for his own sick amusement, Henry didn’t wonder too long. It didn’t matter. The only significant movement Patrick made was his hand, which had previously only been on the ground for balance, was now gripping strongly at Henry’s hip, but even that wouldn’t keep him where he is if Henry wanted to yank him down even more. 

 

 The stench of the junkyard was long forgotten as he pulled Patrick up, not letting him recover or get a good breath before shoving him back down, trying to get even deeper inside his throat this time. He doesn’t make much progress, the choked gags beneath him falling on deaf, uncaring ears. This process, the yanking and shoving, went on for a short while longer before Henry made a split second decision. He yanked Patrick off for a final time, hard enough this time for him to come off completely, tossed backwards so his back hit the filthy ground of the junkyard, head hitting against a thick glass bottle that might honestly have been left there by one of them. He’s confused, wondering if this was another rejection and Henry was gonna go crazy again, threaten him, but that confusion doesn’t last very long. Theres the thud of Henry hitting the ground a little too hard as he drops to his knees, yanking Patrick towards him by one of his knees, sharp pebbles mixed with dirt making their way up Patricks shirt. 

 

 “If you tell anyone about this, you pansy little faggot, I’ll-” 

 

 “I wouldn’t dream of it, Henry,” Patrick realizes what’s happening, a breathless laugh escaping him as he cuts Henry off, head dropping to hit the ground, eyes shutting. He keeps them shut as his body jerks with Henry carelessly yanking off his pants, ignoring the scrape of dry denim against his hips. He’s not sure how Henry plans on getting them off, being so close, and it seems Henry realizes that, too, as he shifts back, giving up when they’re around his knees, “You do it,” he hisses as he catches Patrick’s amused gaze, as if he’d commented on his skill taking shots at cans and dared him to do better. Patrick sits up, eyes on Henrys as he pushes his pants farther down on his legs. Henry looks away, expression tense and angry. Patrick looks down a few seconds after Henry looks away, putting his attention on getting his boot off so he could get rid of his pants. As soon as the boot was his off and pants yanked off that leg, before he could do the same for the other side, Henry was yanking him over again. 

 

 Patrick thought his impatience was entirely hilarious. 

 

 He laid back on his elbows, only half upright now, watching as Henry hesitated, seemed to mentally prepare himself. Maybe he was thinking if he should do anything first, maybe he doesn’t even know what to do if the answer is yes. The grin on Patricks face grows wider, amused by it nonetheless. Upon noticing it, all of the confusion seemed to disappear in a flurry of renewed anger. “Don’t look at me like that, flamer.” 

 

 Patrick couldn’t help the laughter that ripped out of him, the irony in the insult not even slightly over his head. It stops, though, when Henry gets to the point. With nothing more than his own spit to pave the way, the blunt thickness of Henry’s cock forcing its way into him felt  _ fantastically _ unbearable. A long groan escapes him, head tossing back into the dirt. With nothing to hold onto, his hands grasp helplessly at the dirt, nails scraping up the dirt from the ground. Henry, above him, keeps going anyways. His face is kind of strained, as if shoving his way through Patrick cost him more effort than he expected. Patrick grins again, a short laugh draining out before it melts into another groan, breaths coming out in strained huffs the farther Henry makes it. 

 

 Henry is by no means small, with a length that reaches his own belly button. Honestly, he can’t remember what his girth is like, because it  _ feels _ way larger than it is. He feels like a hot iron pipe is being forced inside of him, like everything awful he’s ever done is coming back to him now and it’s  _ amazing _ . “Fuck,” Henry curses above him, the look of intense concentration drawing yet another laugh from Patrick as he looks at him. This time, though, it seems Henry’s getting sick of it. “Shut up,” he hisses, but it does nothing to thwart the bursts of laughter bubbling out of Patrick’s mouth. “Shut up!” He shouts this time, reaching out and grabbing Patrick by the throat tightly enough to cut off all airflow. Impulsively, one of Patrick’s hands flies up to his wrist, gripping it tightly and he’s not sure if it’s to get him off or keep him there. “Shut up, stop fucking looking at me, faggot.” 

 

 His grip relaxes enough to allow for forced breaths when Patrick shuts his eyes, head pressing hard back into the dirt as Henry continues trying to get inside him. There’s suddenly a sharp pain, somewhere deep inside him, that causes Patrick to made a sound he never expected he’d make. More out of shock than genuine pain, a short, high gasp rips through the hair, broken by the hand on his throat. Another unintentional sound follows after, a choked whine that barely lasted half a second before it was swallowed back, a difficult task under the weight of Henry’s palm. His voice is strained as he chokes out a humorous, “Gentle,’ with a patronizing grin.

 

 Henry didn’t seem to get the joke until he drew out halfway, to gain new leverage, and blood came out with him. He didn’t seem deterred by it, though, not muttering so much as the lone word ‘sorry’ as he moves slowly back to where he had been before. Patrick felt like his insides were being dragged around, the pain absolutely thrilling. Henry starts a slow pace, forgetting trying to get all the way inside immediately. Each push and pull drew some variation of sound from Patrick, none being anything that sounds particularly pleased. It was still, actually, exactly what he wanted. Still perfect. Still so fucking good he was hard.

 

 With the hand that isn’t on Henry’s wrist, still gripping hard enough he almost wonders if it’s losing circulation, he reaches between his own legs to finally add something inherently good to the flurry of pain, even if everything about the constant hurt was intoxicating. He’s not frantic or demanding of himself- in fact, the squeezes and tugs are almost so slow and lazy you could think he’s not even trying to get off at all. His breath hitches as Henry shifts the position a little, moving so he’s higher on Patrick's body, trying to gain even more leverage to get deeper. Whatever he did, it moved him the wrong way. It doesn’t actually matter though, with Patrick, every way was the right way. He opens his eyes, not surprised to find that Henry isn’t looking at him. Not in the eyes, anyways. He’s staring with focus and determination somewhere between Patricks collar and chest, the furrow in his brow enough to give away he’s focusing more on his actions than what he’s looking at. 

 

 In the slightly new position, he speeds up. From where he is beneath him, Patrick can’t tell if it’s out of excitement or frustration with not being where he wants to be just yet. He’s buzzing with excitement, slowing his own deliberate movements between his own legs even more. He didn’t want to get off until Henry was entirely inside of him. If that didn’t happen, it wasn’t worth getting off on anyways. Each thrust felt like it was ruining the tear inside of him more, the flurry of various pains mixing. It was sharp, burning, raw and somehow the pressure was suffocating. It was starting to feel like he was losing the room to breath, like Henry was taking up all the space in his body meant for other things. A boa constrictor that works in the opposite way. He grins at the idea. 

 

 He lets out a choked grunt as Henry tightens his grip on his throat suddenly, hips pushing harder and moving faster. His movements were shorter, less like he was getting a feel for everything and more like he was trying to complete the experience. Patrick scoffs out a silent laugh as the quiet part of his mind comments that he acts like the little engine that could of violent, forceful sex. He feels his head swimming with the weighty feeling that comes as he loses oxygen. As if his brain was filling with water. God it was fucking perfect. He couldn’t have played this out any better in his own fantasies without dragging in life threatening physical trauma, something he doesn’t think Henry has any interest in. If he did it, he’d lose the only person in all of Derry willing to spread their legs for him outside of rumors and gossip. 

 

 Suddenly Henry is much more determined to get inside of him, and Patrick's willing to bet it’s because he’s getting close. He’s probably a  _ virgin _ , he mocks in his thoughts, it’s a miracle he’s made it so long. Probably would have blown his load at the first touch of a tongue if he’d never already choked his own chicken. He’s making more progress at once than he has this whole time, fingers twitching tighter around Patricks throat. A black, blotchy presence dances at the edges of his vision, concerning him solely for the fact if he passes out he’d miss the best part. The fingers digging into his wrist sink lower, trying to force their way in between Henry's palm and his throat to separate them enough, barely able to force out a sound as he tries to say his name. Henry barely has the spare focus to offer any leeway, but he does, enough for Patrick to pull in enough air to stay awake. 

 

 In the same moment he finally manages to sink entirely into Patrick, a thick heat fills his insides. Patrick groans, strained and quiet, satisfied. He doesn’t get off, finishing the moment with nothing more than a couple extra squeezes and short tugs before letting his spare hand fall to the ground under him. Henry is panting above him, sweat on his forehead and arms. Patrick has the interest left to wonder if it’s from the heat or their activities, but doesn’t ask. He doesn’t really have to. It’s both. 

 

 The feeling of Henry growing soft inside him wasn’t as satisfying as the rest, but he didn’t demand he pull out. He couldn’t break whatever spell Henry was under if it meant that he could ruin everything. Henry carefully began drawing his hips back, face contorted this time in awkward discomfort as his soft, sensitive cock had to yank out of Patricks body with nothing but blood and cum to ease the way. 

 

 Patrick stays there on his back when Henry finally pulls out with a huff, finding his bodies open, emptiness to be deserving of a wicked grin. 

 

 Henry hits him.  


	2. Too Good to be True

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They've been fooling around for nearly a year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I planned on making this a series, and set it up to be one, but I just never got to it! So after a year, I finally present to you a just as vague conclusion to their story. If you can call it that. Mostly it's just a second dose of porn and stuff.

 Cool hands slipped coyly under his shirt, fingertips tracing along the contours of his abdomen while thin lips played feather-light along his neck. He closes his eyes as the lips at his neck part against him, one hand rising farther towards his chest while the other works idly on his belt. He doesn’t know when this happened, when he got so… comfortable with Patrick doing this- with him manipulating his mind and his body in such an unusual way. They’d had their secret rendezvous for nearly a year now, and every time it gets… better? If that’s what you could call this hot plate of fucking disaster. 

 

 He sucks in a sharp breath as Patricks steadily warming hand wraps loosely around his flaccid cock, stroking with a lame grip, teasing him. Henry can feel the petty little faggots hair against his shoulder, his body against his back. He spidery arms wrapped around his body, so terrifying when consuming their victims whole to subject them to whatever trauma they’d conjured that day, was a comfort so private not even Patrick knew of their power. He rationalized it in a much less romantic way than the general perception of ‘I love him, my protector.’ No, he assumes the comfort here comes from the discomfort boys like Hockstetter give his father. 

 

 Butch scared the living shit out of him, so when he passively mentions over dinner he doesn’t want Henry leaving Patrick alone by the coops anymore, or passively decides Patrick will no longer be allowed as an overnight guest after a mysteriously mutilated mouse winds up laying belly up by his bedroom door, it draws him closer to them. Anyone with the power to make his dad, the privately cruel sheriff of the Derry Police Department was someone worth keeping. 

 

 Passively, Patrick mutters the obvious against the soft mark he’s left at the junction of Henrys neck and shoulder, “It’s not standing up.” No, of course it’s not, he’s spent the last minute thinking about his dad and all the things Patricks done to freak him out. But rather than admit it’s of any fault of his own, he yanks Patricks hand out of his pants and whirls around, grabbing him by the shirt collar and yanking the boy, who’d attempted a minor gesture of retreat, closer to his face. 

 

 “Maybe it’s because you’re acting like a little girl over there.” 

 

 Immediately the corner of Patricks lips quirked up into a smirk, making quick work of attacking Henry’s choice of words, “I thought you liked girls-” Before he can finish the thought, Henrys yanking him harder before shoving him backwards, sending him sprawling back onto his fathers bed. He reaches up, wiping nothing away from his nose, while Patrick resigns to his place on the bed, head tilted back into the heavy fabric of the quilt as he breathes out a thin laugh. With deliberately slow movements, he drags his arms under him, propping himself up on his elbow and rolling his head so his cheek rests against his shoulder. He looks at Henry with pleased amusement for a moment, watching Henry watch him. 

 

 Henry doesn’t make a move, and for a short while, testing him, Patrick doesn’t either. Rather he lays there, lowering one hand to play with the hem of the shirt while the other remains in place to support his weight. He watches the defensive tension in Henrys shoulders begin to crumble, the fragility of his masculinity becoming apparent. He liked to push Henry there, watch his insults and arguments melt on his tongue before he can get them out, watch him get all shiny as a crease builds in his brow. But if he waits too long, the mood will crack in time with Henrys sensibilities, and that would ruin all the fun. 

 

 He sits up, scooting forward on the bed as he reaches forward, hooking a finger into Henry’s belt loop and pulling him forward. With his other hand he takes hold of the back of Henry’s neck, stretching upwards as he yanks the other down. He catches his lips in an ugly kiss, all teeth and inexperienced tongues. No one in their right mind would ever kiss the both of them, no one except each other. Though it was extremely arguable that they could be claimed to be in their right minds in the first place. 

 

 This was something Patrick never got to do. Kiss him. Always an unaccomplished goal. To break him, his morals and sensibility, to such an extent. Empowering, almost.

 

 He pulls away slowly, drinking up the confusion melting and twisting with offended rage in Henrys eyes. He had probably 5 seconds before that rage turned into words, or more likely into action. He made quick to proceed with the resolution, yanking Henry closer so he’s standing in between his knees. His pants still lay undone, folded open against his legs, an open invitation Patrick accepted with eager enthusiasm. With a swift yank Henry’s pants were bunching up loosely around his thighs, an active warning that they’d be sinking to his ankles at any moment goes ignored as Patrick slinks forward, taking Henrys whole flaccid member into his mouth with no hesitation at all. 

 

 He heart the rage bubble out of him in choked breaths, a dirty hand reaching to grip roughly at the roots of Patricks greasy hair. It was quick work from there, nearly half a minute spent bringing Henry’s member to full attention. He barely even had to put in any elbow grease to have him huffing and puffing above him, fidgeting like a whore at an abstinence seminar. 

 

 When he pulls off, a soft pop follows him, deep brown eyes that always seemed to reflect mischievous malice flicking up to look at Henry, who seemed torn between looking at him and keeping his eyes firmly shut with how scrunched up his face was. From where he sat beneath him, Hockstetter couldn’t help but to laugh. He looked constipated, it was funny. It really was no wonder Henry never could make it with any girl. 

 

 “Did I act like too much of a girl that ti-?” 

 

 Henry’s making a funny face at him and shoving him back before he can finish the last word, an amused laugh spilling out of him as his back hit the comforter for the second time that night. 

 

 The amusement still glimmers in Patricks eyes as he moves onto his elbows again, reaching down to pull open the button of and unzip his pants, kicking off an untied boot in the same motion. It’s enough for Henry, so little as exposure or an invitation of it always is, and soon his pants are being yanked down his legs, his shoe-less foot falling out of the pants leg. His jeans hang uselessly off one ankle as Henry impatiently fills the space between Patricks legs. The brunette is very familiar with Henry’s impatience, and it comes as no surprise to him when the blunt force of dry entry rips through him, forcing out all his air. He winces, groans, but takes it like a champ like he always does. Henry would be impressed if it wasn’t so fruity of him to take it like that. 

 

 Immediately Henry gets moving, setting a punishing pace that makes the bed rock. He can only imagine the horrible thudding they’d be listening to if they were facing the proper direction. Beneath him, Patrick is less silent than he remembers. The noises are small, but observable without much focus. He’s gasping, groaning, keening. He’s twisting and arching beneath Henry, moving with him, filling every bubble of space in Henry’s mind with nothing but himself. Henry is not just absorbed in the way Patrick felt on him, around him- but in  _ him _ . 

 

 He’d been so consumed by the sensation of  _ Patrick _ , who- beginning to lose himself to the heat of the moment- began scratching at his back and biting at his shoulders with the intensity of a rabid animal, he hadn’t noticed the bed beneath his knees harden into firm earth, or how the top layer seemed to soften into loose dirt. He doesn’t notice the way the stuffy air of the room melts into a melting pot of aired out stench. He doesn’t notice the way light surrounds him more fiercely past the way Patrick angles his hips, the way his breath hitches and raises an octave. It happens sometimes, sometimes something goes on down there that just makes Patrick come undone. He thinks the first time it happened Patrick didn’t even expect it, and that may have been the one and only time he’d been able to take total control over the other, over the situation. 

 

 It all comes undone in the same moment. He yanks Patricks head back by the hair and  _ feels _ the way some of it snaps straight out of his head, how his bones have become stiff and his flesh moist and swollen. He opens his eyes to see the junkyard surrounding him, his breath getting stuck in his chest, trapped behind a heart beating so hard and so fast that nothing had room to go in or out of his body. The realization he doesn’t know how he got there comes after he realizes where he came  _ from _ was  _ not _ his room. Rather, it was his fathers. His breathing grows labored and wheezey with every second that passes, his hand dropping from Patricks hair to join the other against the ground to push himself away. As if Patrick was in his mind, anticipating his every move, he locks bloated ankles together behind Henrys head, linking soft, decaying arms around his neck. “What’s wrong?” 

 

 The sound of his voice makes Henry light headed, the way it sounded as though he were speaking through water stuck in his throat. He’s terrified to look down, trying one more time a fruitless effort to yank himself free of his friends grasp. When he fails, he takes in one deep, trembling breath before opening his eyes and looking down at his friend. Only when he looked did every other sense come into play. Suddenly he was overly aware of the moisture of Patricks bloated flesh, the curve of open wounds and the wretched stench of decay. Patrick was a water damaged corpse, bones sticking out and flesh caving in where Henry rested too much weight. Scattered all over him were sucked in bruises framed by deep teeth marks- leeches. What was once a warm inviting pressure was now a cold, wet, sloppy  _ disgusting _ hold on him that won’t let go and he  _ swears _ he feels- he  _ knows _ \-- holy  _ fuck _ that’s  _ maggots _ squirming all around his fucking  _ dick _ . 

 

 He begins hyperventilating, fingernails digging into the ground as his friend tightened his arms and legs around him, pulling him in close enough for their foreheads to touch. Henry resists the urge to gag as Patrick breaths hot decay right into his open mouth, clenching his jaws tightly enough to crush his molars and hissing a strained groan threatening to sprout into a shout through his teeth. In an instant the air has grown moist, the light dimmed, and the dry dirt beneath their knees has given way to curved grounds and wet puddles. He doesn’t need to look to know where he is. “Why’d you stop, Bowers?” Beneath him Patrick rocks his hips, upsetting the maggots inside of him and sending them writhing all over again, shooting another wave of nasuea through the blond that sends him curling forward into his decomposing friend, a freshly wet hand clapping against his mouth. 

‘

 “Come on, what’s the big deal?” Patrick leans forward, speaking into Henrys ear with horrific sensuality, “Come float.” 

 

 And like just like that, Henry’s shooting up in his bed room. It’s the middle of the night, and all around him are kookey little men in white smocks. He looks down at himself, the smock soaked through with 

 

_ sewer water _

 

sweat, before looking up at the window. There, through the glass, the moon watched him. It laughed at him. It and it’s chorus of stars stat their heeing and hawing at him. Slowly he reclines back into the cot, turns his back on the night sky, and lets the shrill, shrieking laughter of the constellations lull him into a new, dreamless slumber. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you thought "and stuff" meant a small helping of plot! surprise! Patrick has maggots in his bussy :)  
> Hope y'all appreciated the gore elements, I'm definitely no King but I did my best at bringing the source content into the mix!  
> Feel free to leave a comment with any comments or critiques! I feel like my gore fell a little flat since I was also reading my friend gush about their special interest, but if I didn't write it now it'd never get written lol. Any and all comments and kudos are appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me @khemystery on tumblr


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